


Christmas at 221B

by EM__R



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John Watson, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Eventual Smut, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Getting Together, Grinding, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Out, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Mrs. Hudson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Parent Sherlock, Realization, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EM__R/pseuds/EM__R
Summary: It is the first Christmas since John and Rosie moved back into 221B, where they belonged. The two idiots are equally love-struck, but oblivious to the other's feelings. As Christmas approaches, one can only hope that the most wonderful time of the year will encourage bold confessions.Smut is coming! No pun intended. They will get there.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 34





	1. John is confused

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is unfinished, I aim to write one chapter a day between tomorrow (the 20th, and Christmas Eve, correlating real-time with the day's the story takes place on), the first chapter set a few weeks before at the beginning of December. Your patience will be rewarded, they WILL be under the mistletoe on Christmas Day, after what I plan to make a fun-filled Christmas Eve[ning] ;)  
> THERE IS NO COVID.  
> I aim to make this piece as fluffy/smutty as I can, just bare with me, and bare with them. They'll get there, I promise.  
> I will add tags as I go along.

Sunday 6th December 2020. 221B Baker Street. Late evening. ________________________________________________________________________________________ 

The firelight cast an orange glow across each surface of the flat, seemingly creating a warm atmosphere in more than a literal way. They had lit it in the early hours of the afternoon as December was proving to be particularly cold this year. John Watson watched the silent figures on the TV converse, though he had no desire to turn the sound on and hear what they were saying.

After the day they’d had with a toothing toddler, he found he appreciated nothing more than the silence that accompanied the cold late evening. 

He put his empty teacup on its coaster on the coffee table and sunk lower into the sofa so his head was no longer resting atop the sofa’s back. He felt more than saw through hooded eyes when Sherlock returned from putting Rosie to bed. The sofa dipped gently beside him as Sherlock’s outstretched legs tucked under John’s thighs, Sherlock’s head perched, as always, on the arm at the other end. 

At some point almost every day since he and Rosie had moved back in, he had found himself marvelling at how well Sherlock had adapted to life with a child. He put up no fuss when she would cry, was always first into the living room - where they began keeping her cot (by the far living room window) when John returned to work after the first few weeks - when she woke in the early hours. He watched as Sherlock kept calm and consoled when she fussed about her dinner, fussed about her toys or what she wanted to wear, it was almost as if John was watching another man. 

He appreciated what Sherlock was doing, he was effectively, no, not even that, he was undoubtedly co-parenting a child that he had no claim to. But how he loved her. John could see it every time Sherlock saw or spoke of Rosie, his whole face would light up and his eyes would twinkle, mouth slightly upturned at the edges, even if he was re-telling a story of how Rosie had misbehaved. Almost as if he admired her rebellious nature, a trait, John was sure, she was inheriting from the detective. 

Whilst Sherlock proved to be a help, his behaviour, though not by any fault of his own, only enhanced feelings inside John that he had managed to ignore since wedding Mary. He had never tried to fool himself into thinking they had gone, or would ever go for that fact, but with the whole Mary drama, he had managed to convince himself that he wasn’t in love with Sherlock, he even went as far as to convince himself for a few short weeks that he hated the man. But that had turned into nothing but senseless blaming and self-hatred that John had thankfully grown to dismiss. 

He glanced over at his flatmate and caught sight of the faint white line beneath his left eye, a mark left by John himself all those months ago in the morgue. Sherlock had forgiven and forgotten. He did say it was unimportant and as he regularly stated, he chose to forget things he found to be unimportant in favour of facts he wished to keep filed away. John was inclined to believe Sherlock had genuinely forgotten what he’d done. But John could never, he couldn’t forgive himself for hurting Sherlock in the way that he did.  
As if he knew the dark road John’s mind was walking down, Sherlock wiggled his toes and forced them further under John’s warm legs, sighing contentedly as he did. Their eyes met. It always seemed that when they did, they could have conversations wordlessly, effortlessly, like they always knew what the other was thinking. 

John had often worried that Sherlock could read into his feelings for the detective merely by looking him in the eyes. Who was John kidding, he could probably tell John was in love with him by the way he scratched his bloody nose in his presence. But if the genius noticed, he didn’t say or do anything to alter the blissful domesticity they had so effortlessly fallen into that very first day John and Rosie had returned. John still remembered that day, fondly and clearly. Sherlock had all but suggested it when John complained one evening about having to travel across the city, getting two trains, just to come back in the morning for a case they’d started. It seemed like the most obvious thing to do, Sherlock had assured him countless times that Rosie would be no trouble. He had been wrong, but he had never complained. He’s cared for her as if she wasn’t Satan’s spawn herself. John moved back in the very next day. The house was sold within a week and John somehow managed to be more than okay with the chapter of his life dedicated to Mary, finishing. 

Sadly, he’d barely thought of her since. His feelings for her, in the end, had proven to be more confusing and complex than the ones he had for the man beside him.  
But while Sherlock could probably deduce everything about John, including what he had eaten for breakfast every morning he’d been away from Baker Street, John couldn’t even begin to fathom what the great detective was thinking. Ever. 

When their eyes met this time in the silence of the flat they both called home, the same look flashed across Sherlock’s face that John had seen almost every time he dared to look at the detective when the detective was focused on John. 

There was a softness that John tried not to read too much into. Not only that but a faint sense of worry and a great deal of confusion and or contemplation, as if John of all ordinary people, had managed to stump the great Sherlock Holmes. John was desperate to know what it meant, even if it didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean. He let his hand fall on Sherlock’s shins, not a new gesture for the two of them, but a rare one. He let his forefinger stroke once before he reluctantly stilled his hand where it landed and turned his head back to the TV. 

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him still, minutes later, but he didn’t dare turn back toward their demanding stare. A few minutes went by before he felt the comfort of Sherlock’s feet pulled out from underneath him and a brisk shuffling began dipping the sofa. He stiffened when he felt Sherlock’s head in his lap, his face turned towards John’s stomach. He buried his face into John’s jumper, his arm coming to wrap around John’s back. 

It was so out of character for the man, that John didn’t even know how to respond. When he heard a deep, drawn-out rumble muffled by his wooden jumper that sounded similar to his name John wove his fingers into the thick black curls that adorned the man’s head.  
Sherlock turned into the touch, his eyes meeting John’s as he lay face-up. 

The look was still in his eyes. Nerves and doubt casting a shadow now over the contemplation as if he had come to a decision but was nervous about it. There they remained for what seemed like hours until the inevitable wail screeched from the other side of the living room.

Five seconds had barely passed before Sherlock was sitting up, leaving John to shiver from the sudden loss of heat on his thighs, and climbing over the coffee table to tend to the screaming toddler. So much for that, John thought defeatedly.

He waited until Sherlock had settled Rosie, before he bid him goodnight, leaving the room briskly as to avoid the stunned detective who had begun making his way back to the sofa. Unfair as it was, he needed to think, and he couldn't do that with Sherlock in the same room, nevermind with the man's head in his lap.


	2. Sherlock has feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning from a case late one night, all worked up, we see what happened that evening from Sherlock's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is still unfinished. I thought this chapter would do well as a stand-alone chapter as opposed to being a prelude to the 20th December (which is the morning following this chapter).  
> I hope you enjoy it.

Saturday 19th December 2020. 221B Baker Street. Midnight.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Coattails flew through the foyer of 221 with an almost audible whoosh as Sherlock ascended the stairs with determination, leaving John to close the door and wonder just what was wrong with his friend.

They had been called out to a crime scene mid-morning and were just getting in a little after midnight. He threw open the door to the living room, almost tearing down low hanging paper chains with the flourish of his hands. It wasn't anything to do with the case that had gotten Sherlock all wound up, but, as it was most days, the one thing he found causing him distress on so many levels, was his flatmate, who had still not made it into the flat.

He sighed deeply as he threw his Belstaff and scarf in the general direction of the coat hooks, knowing that John would probably pick them up should they miss. They were wet from the snow anyway and therefore he would undoubtedly find them draped across the living room radiator before breakfast. John. Sweet little helpful John, he though almost bitterly.

He cursed his attitude and brought the palm of his hand to his forehead harshly. It wasn't actually John's fault that his praise sometimes elicited a physical response in Sherlock. He wasn't mad at John, it wouldn't be fair to be. Rather, he was mad with himself, he felt betrayed by his so-called transport - though he had accepted everything he ever claimed about his body and mind to be completely untrue. It was just 'transport', he said. Feed it the bare minimum, give it enough sleep to function without hindrance. As for that kind of physical reaction, he had only really experienced it as long as he had known John. It was only ever John that made his body feel such things.

He paced momentarily before striding purposely into his bedroom before closing the door forcefully behind him. He knew his body had become accustomed to food and sleep, and though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, he often felt better for it. But as for the stirring John provoked in his stomach, the reaction his lower body would have when the man was close, he feared he could never get used to. It wouldn't be a problem if John even felt the slightest of attraction to him in return. But of course, Captain John 'Not Gay' Watson would feel nothing of the sort, so Sherlock contented himself with the fantasies of unrequited love.

He brought his fists up to the door, his forehead resting gently between them, and shuddered as he forced out a shaky sigh. His body began to shiver as he fought to hold the inevitable tears back. Because that is what it was, love. He loved John - was in love with John. 

He discarded his clothes and climbed into bed, ignoring the cold sheets on his bare skin. Pulling the covers around his shoulders and tucking it around his legs with a brisk flick of his feet, he snuggled down and waited to warm up. His mind wandered, as it often did, back to that night a few weeks before.

<< It hadn't been a significant day, there had been no case and they had merely hung around the flat, John playing with Rosie, Sherlock in the kitchen with his microscope. Just a regular Sunday at 221B. But that evening, when he had put Rosie down, he had allowed himself a few moments to watch the man on the sofa, half asleep trying to watch the TV. His heart had fluttered at the sight, as it always did, and he briefly wondered if it would be worth trying to convey his feelings to John. He had slumped down beside the man he loved and tucked his feet under the warmth of his strong thigh. It was barely a few seconds before he'd felt the touch of John's hand on his shin, something that didn't happen as much as he would like. 

When John had turned to look him in the eyes, he found he couldn't breath. He knew that, in the silent, intimate moments, he lost all ability to hold his defences up. He knew that he had planned to try and get John to see, understand how he felt, but in that moment, he had prayed that the man didn't read too much into what was undoubtedly showing prominently on his face. He had barely had time to begin to catalogue John's features before he had turned back to the TV. But Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away. He had traced John's profile with his eyes a thousand times, but never did he tire of watching the sandy lashes brushing against the soft skin of his cheeks in his tired state. The curl of his lips as he unconsciously puckered them as the muscles in his face settled for the evening. There was nothing about John that Sherlock didn't love. There was only one thing that rivalled his love for John Watson, and that was his love for the chubby, wrinkled, miniature human in the cot by the window. Though, wonderful and smart as she was, Sherlock did not doubt that, were Rosie not John's daughter, he would not feel so strongly for her. As she grew, he had no doubt he would grow to love her for who she is within herself, but as it was in that moment, her most endearing quality, was that she was John's. And that made her perfect.

He knew that John was aware that he was still looking at him, and seemingly felt no discomfort, and so had decided that he would see what he could get away with. He pulled his knees up to his chest, a faint smile on his face when John's face dropped slightly as he broke contact, turned, and deposited his head on John's right thigh, his face basking in the warmth of John's horrid jumper. He found that no place had ever felt more like home. He had felt John stiffen and hoped it was merely out of shock. He mumbled John's name involuntarily as feelings overtook him. When fingers carded their way through his hair, he almost moaned aloud at the touch, and was beyond thankful that he didn't. He had turned into the touch and almost choked on an inhale when he saw John looking down at him with what Sherlock prayed he didn't misinterpret as affection. 

All his confidence evaporated and he was on the verge of jumping out of the man's lap when Rosie wailed. He hadn't time to think before he was up and climbing over the coffee table, unsure of whether he was glad to be out of the warmth of John's half-embrace.

Rosie had only lost her stuffed bee and almost immediately quietened when Sherlock tucked it back under her arms. When he turned, his intentions to crawl back into John's lap, should the man be amenable, were disrupted as he watched the man stride out of the room. He was out of Sherlock's sight before he could even call out "Goodnight" in reply.

He remained in the living room, practically frozen in place by his leather chair, for what was probably upwards of five minutes. He hadn't known what John was thinking. His actions had been based purely on hope and odd glances John had flashed his way. It was possible Sherlock had merely misunderstood. Luckily, he thought as he trudged through to his room, turning the TV off as he passed, he hadn't said or done anything that couldn't be passed off as tiredness. His heart sunk, the feeling of it hitting the bottom of his stomach had made Sherlock nauseous. >>

As he lay awake pondering that evening weeks before, Sherlock concluded that, even after all the years of what he thought of as 'humanising', he still understood nothing about people. He pulled the duvet around him tighter as the tears finally began to fall, catching him off guard. It embarrassed him to feel so strongly for someone who would not love him back. He was ashamed to feel, that night especially. All John had said was that he was brilliant, his usual compliment. But as Sherlock had caught the man's heated gaze, he had felt a stirring in his gut, a faint sensation brewing a little lower as he caught a glimpse of John's tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. The moment had been over quicker than it had begun, John was talking to Greg and Sherlock was left flustered and unable to think. Thoroughly affected and ashamed at his own thoughts and reactions. He was a bad friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know how the story will go, but I want to know how you guys think it should progress. Let me know how you can imagine things developing, what do you have in mind for out favourite duo? How do you think they should go from here?
> 
> If you notice any spelling/grammar mistakes, please let me know and I'll edit!


	3. A Detective on a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is all worked up, tired and stressed and on top of that, has to go to work. But the flat is a mess, and everything is becoming a little overwhelming. Sherlock notices and comes up with a plan to ease John's mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is still not finished, and I hope you don't expect two chapters EVERY day haha.  
> They're getting there, I think. I hope. We shall see.

Sunday 20th December 2020. 221B Baker Street. 

________________________________________________________________________________________

John was running out of hands and had already run out of patience. Rosie was acting up, throwing her food across the kitchen, and he was sure he had felt a blob of jam catch him on the shoulder as she propelled it over the table. He knew it wasn't right to shout at a child for being a child, but he was close to losing it.

The last straw was when Sherlock finally entered the room a little after 08:00. He knew that they had gotten in late after the case, but when John had work the following morning, they had an unspoken agreement. Sherlock would not lie in and would instead help John get Rosie ready so he wouldn't be late for work. He glared towards the kitchen door, intending to give his arrogant flat-mate the 'you know what you've done' stare, but was caught off guard when Sherlock emerged in his sheet. The man merely yawned, not letting his gaze meet John's. John didn't know if Sherlock genuinely didn't know he was being stared down, or if he was intentionally avoiding the accusing stare. He would deal with that once he picked Rosie's toast up off the floor. Regaining his composure at seeing more of Sherlock than he was able to see without becoming too distracted, John bent down and groped at the tacky floor.

When he stood, Sherlock was gone, John's tea with him. He turned to the sink, hands splayed on the counter, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lest he ends up killing someone. Minutes later, clean showered, somehow, and now suitably dressed, Sherlock re-emerged, looking handsome as ever. John chastised himself for his thoughts, turning his attention back to his daughter, who had more jam around her face than she had probably consumed.

He threw her bowl into the sink a little harder than he imagined, a displeased whimper coming from his daughter's mouth in protest of his behaviour. He composed himself before he wiped her mouth. A warm hand found his shoulder, catching him off guard. He stood briskly, nearly backing straight into Sherlock. "What are you doing?" He asked, a little bolder than he intended.

"You've, erm, just got some jam on your jumper. Just thought I'd-" Sherlock stilled his left hand above the stain, damp cloth in hand, as his other hand came to rest between John's shoulder blades in an attempt to keep the material still as he wiped.

John's breath hitched, and he hoped Sherlock didn't notice, though, with his hand on his back a little above his lungs, he would have been an idiot to miss it. The sensation of the cloth being rubbed gently across the soiled material was oddly soothing, the closest thing John had received to a massage/comforting touch in months. He let himself turn into the touch and was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock's unoccupied hand slipped up and over his clean shoulder. A gentle squeeze sent a shiver through him and he pulled himself away from the touch, seeming much calmer than he actually was. He pulled the material over his shoulder to see the mess and smiled at Sherlock as a thank you, but the taller man wouldn't look at him directly.

Rosie grunted, unhappy that all the attention wasn't focussed on her. John briskly wiped her tray and kissed her on her still sticky cheek as he shrugged on his coat. His shift was due to start in less than half an hour, he was already going to be late. 

"You going to be okay with her?" He asked Sherlock. He always asked, and always received the same answer.

"Obviously." Sherlock finally met his gaze and smiled broadly. 

Satisfied that his daughter would be fine and that Sherlock was prepared for the mental torture of dealing with a moody toddler for the day, John left with a huff. He didn't enjoy working when it was so close to Christmas. He had booked the 23rd and the 24th off, so there were only two days left to work. He wasn't contracted to work Mondays when he was in on a Sunday. As the door of 221 opened, greeting him harshly with a gust of cold air, John was already looking forward to when he returned home from work.

**

Sherlock had waited for the sound of the downstairs door closing before he sprung into action. He had watched how flustered John had looked before he had left, and had decided mere seconds after walking into the kitchen, that he had to do something. He knew exactly what would cheer John up. 

Sherlock shucked off his blazer, rolled his sleeves up and stuck his tongue out at a watchful Rosie. She giggled and watched intently as he bent and picked her discarded cheerios off the floor that John had, in his haste, missed. He threw them into the bin with a loud "One, two, three-"

"Or!" Rosie cheered as she joined in.

He threw the fourth in, pointing at Rosie with his free hand, smiling, "That's right my Dear Watson, four! Five, and six! Now-" He scooped her up and held her in the air, smiling, giddy with the love he had for her. She giggled once again and began kicking her legs in play. He held her close as he started towards the bathroom. She was very sticky and in dire need of a bath and a clean set of clothes.

**

Mrs Hudson giggled as she listened to the thudding coming from the flat above her. Sherlock had brought Rosie by about an hour before, looking like a man on a mission, and a rather flustered looking man with ruddy cheeks and mussed up hair at that.

She had an idea about what he was doing, and why. They did make her laugh, John and Sherlock. Each was as oblivious as the other, and each as love-struck as the other, and whilst it was fun watching them both become worked up so easily, so flustered at a mere glance, she wished they would just find each other, and soon. After everything that had happened between them, all the years of pain, it would really make this Christmas extra special.

A loud bang roused her from her contemplation, followed by a deep rumble somewhat resembling the word 'ouch', and she once again failed to hold her laughter in. It was going to be an interesting few days, she thought.

**

John's mood hadn't lightened by the time he saw the familiar sight of the door that proudly bore the address '221B'. With his complicated feelings for Sherlock and the stress of dealing with a toddler, all whilst having to diagnose flu case after flu case, "No, Mrs Jennings, you're not dying. Just the flu, I told you that you should have had the vaccine. Fluids and rest, okay?" he was beginning to feel run-down. He'd spent his day with pointless cases, lego stuck up a nostril, scraped knees that really didn't need to be brought to the attention of a doctor, and his normal routine checkups, those he didn't mind so much. One case did make him laugh though, a father brought his reluctant daughter to the clinic, worried that she was bleeding internally because he found used sanitary products in their bathroom bin.

The perks of being a single father, John thought fondly. But he wasn't a single father as he had Sherlock. But how long could he rely on Sherlock's help? He couldn't burden Sherlock with Rosie for much longer. He knew Sherlock didn't mind, but when you have a child, your life revolves around them, and John wasn't sure whether that life was right for Sherlock in the long-run. They needed to talk, and sooner rather than later.

The smell of cookies greeted him as he ascended the stairs. He briefly considered going back the few steps to ask Mrs Hudson if she had any spare - against his better judgement, he was trying to diet once again- he felt he could do with a warm cookie that very minute. He stopped in his tracks as the smell seemed to come from his flat. Resuming his ascent, he slipped his coat off his shoulders, hanging it up on the hook before pushing the door open slowly. He didn't know why he felt it, or what it was, but something was different, and he was a little curious.

The sight that greeted him was a welcome one indeed. The flat had never seemed cleaner. The floor was devoid of toddler toys, stored neatly, and no doubt in colour order or alphabetical order, in storage boxes under the table that John had never seen before. The coffee table had been cleared of the take-out trays that had abandoned two evenings previously, and it looked as if it had been polished. 

He entered the kitchen with no expectations, thinking it a lost cause to anyone. But the kitchen table was bare of all experiments, all food had been cleared up, both spilt and still boxed/bagged items gone, and a quick glance at the shelves showed that the cereal and bread were in their proper places. The jam was in the fridge, and there wasn't a single pot in the sink awaiting John's return. The most obvious difference that he was pleased to notice, was that the floor was no longer sticky below his feet. He let his eyes fall as he took in the smell of fresh baking and lemon bleach. It was at that moment that he noticed that there was no-one else in the flat. He knew he had no need to worry, both Sherlock and Rosie would probably be downstairs with Mrs Hudson, at the park or, Rosie would be with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock at St. Bart's. Either way, John figured he should go see Mrs Hudson, thank her for tidying up, but not before he took advantage of an empty flat, and took a much needed, very long shower.

**

He could hear Rosie before he saw her. She began babbling incoherently as soon as he announced his presence at Mrs Hudson's door. She ambled towards him as fast as she could with the available furniture, delighted when she made it to him without his help. His heart leapt as he watched his not so little girl almost walking without assistance. She shrieked in glee when he pulled her up, nuzzling close when he tucked her under his chin.

John struggled to sit across from Mrs Hudson with the infant wriggling in his arms. She settled within a minute and John was forced to whisper when conversing with Mrs Hudson as he realised Rosie was already asleep. It must have been a long day for the little girl.

"Mrs Hudson, let me start by saying thank you for looking after her. What time did Sherlock drop her off?" John gladly took the offered cup of tea with a grateful smile.

"Oh, you know it's absolutely no bother John, I love having her here. Let me think," she bustled around the kitchen as she placed a couple of biscuits on a plate, "it must have been a little before 10:00 when he brought her down. He's been very busy today." She smiled smugly as she sat back down in her chair.

"I don't doubt it." John refused a biscuit begrudgingly, thinking it a bad idea to indulge himself. Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow and remained silent until John took the hint and took a biscuit. He dipped it in his tea once, took a bite and put it down, unnoticed by his land-lady. "You know you didn't have to do that. I could have sorted it all out before Christmas, I do have a couple of days off this week." He swapped Rosie to his other arm carefully, so as not to wake her.

"Sorry? Do what?" Mrs Hudson knew exactly what he was getting at as she goaded him with a smug smile.

"Tidying. I'm saying that I'm grateful, but you shouldn't have troubled yourself with it. I'm sure it must have been absolutely disgusting at times."

She shook her head, an amused smile plastered across her kind face. "As per usual John, dear, you see but do not observe," she mocked. "It wasn't me." Her voice went higher at the end as she teased him.

"Then who-" John stared in shock at his landlady as she slowly nodded, a twinkle in her eyes, "you mean Sherlock-" He couldn't even finish was he thought to be an absurd question. He scolded himself internally for being so rude about Sherlock before smiling, a brighter smile than he should have let show. He was always surprised when Sherlock did something so kind and self-less, though he knew he shouldn't. For the old Sherlock, yes, a thoughtful deed would be surprising, but the new Sherlock was kind and compassionate, and John often found himself in awe of the man and the amount he has changed and developed. It only made him love him more.

As if aware of the thoughts running around in John's head, Mrs Hudson smiled to herself and manoeuvred the sleeping child out of John's grasp, placing her gently in her chair. She held the seat out, barely suppressing a snigger when a still stunned John took it without a word, smiled absently and left.

**

John put Rosie to bed a little before 19:30, but Sherlock still wasn't back. He had to thank him, but John was beaten and seriously considering going to bed himself within the next hour. If Sherlock hadn't returned by 21:00, he'd have to wait to show his appreciation. He was off work tomorrow, he was sure there would be time to talk to Sherlock, both about his thoughtful actions and about the concerns John had about subjecting Sherlock to a life of raising a child. His thoughts wavered as he realised that if Sherlock wasn't amenable to raising Rosie indefinitely, that John would surely have to leave him and the flat, and with it, the life they'd built together over the years. He found he could barely breathe thinking about it, and hoped he could remain collected when he spoke with Sherlock tomorrow. He slumped onto his bed and turned on his TV, letting anything play in the hopes that he could become distracted from his haunting thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you enjoying the story so far? :)


	4. Surprises and Paper Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade lets it slip to John that Sherlock is in love with him. When John returns home than evening, he decides that they should talk about something that has been bothering him, though he is unaware that the same thing has been bothering Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and pining, but sadly no smut/romance yet. But we do have cute Sherlock and Rosie, so there's that. :)

Monday 21st December 2020. The pub. 221B Baker Street. Evening.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg had been silent for nearing two minutes, his cheeks and the tips of his ears red with embarrassment, and for the same duration, John’s mouth had been agape in shock at what Lestrade had just let slip.  
“John, mate-“ Lestrade’s voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Sherlock-“ John couldn’t even begin to comprehend what he had heard, never mind string together the series of questions that were whizzing around in his head.

“Forget- just forget it, John. I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t fair of me.” Hands waving frantically, a bead of sweat trickled down Greg’s temple. He sighed in defeat as he finally looked John in the eye.  
“He loves- no, wait, you said that he’s in love with me. There’s a difference Greg, a big difference. Which is it?” John controlled his emotions as he asked the question he never dreamed he’d be asking.  
“John, I shouldn’t have-“

“No, but you did and here we are.” He tried not to sound angry if anything he was elated, but in trying to hide his rising joy, he schooled his tone a little too much and sounded a little too harsh. “Greg, just tell me. Please.” He spoke gentler now, assuring the devastated detective that he wasn’t in trouble.

“Yea, in love. But John, you can’t say that I told you. I’m not even supposed to know.”

“Then how?”

“Molly, you know what she’s like, she just- you know.” He shrugged in defeat as he downed the rest of his pint.

They had met at their usual pub shortly after Greg had texted John, letting him know he had done early. The conversation had been about the usual, the previous week’s football game, the weather - they are English – and what they’ve been up. John had told him in passing about how he had returned home from work the previous day to find that the whole place had been cleaned from top to bottom, the experiments gone, and everything organised and in its place. Lestrade had smiled, shaking his head slightly in amusement as John’s eyes lit up when he revealed that it was Sherlock, not Mrs Hudson, who had done the whole thing. 

He knew his best friend was in love with Sherlock. He’d had a feeling, he had asked, and hadn’t stop inquiring until John had told him the truth. He had initially felt back for pestering, but upon seeing the relief in John’s eyes, and the way his shoulders had dropped as if no longer holding onto the invisible weight of his secret, he found he was glad he had pushed. They didn’t talk about it a lot, both having been sure, until recently, that Sherlock would be uninterested.  
Molly had let it slip to him one day in the morgue. “We always go to extreme measures to help those we love, don’t we?” She had asked it so innocently, but as it was in response to Lestrade’s query about why Sherlock had been so open to living with a toddler, it didn’t require too much reading into.

As for the way John had unexpectedly found out mere minutes ago, that was less innocent and conspicuous.

John had been going on about living with Sherlock and how great he was with Rosie when he had suddenly looked like a child who had been told Santa Clause wasn’t real. He’d gone quiet, too quiet. Greg had asked what was wrong, only for John to reveal that he was worried that Sherlock would eventually want him and Rosie to leave. John figured he wouldn’t want them around forever.

“He’d be devastated if you left. He loves Rosie too much to lose her, and as for how he feels about you, well let’s just say that- oh.” He had stopped abruptly upon realising what he was about to say. It was too late, John’s interest was piqued. His mouth was parted, eyes wide with apprehension as he wordlessly asked Lestrade what he meant. 

“Well he’s in love with you, isn’t he? Can’t you tell?” Before the words were even out of his mouth, Greg’s face had been redder than a beetroot, eyes focussed on his glass, fists clenched.  
“Yea, Molly’s never really been too good with secrets.” John pondered aloud after a few more minutes of quiet. There was no sense of anger in his voice to Greg’s relief. John looked around, seeing the other patrons enjoying their drinks, wondering if any of them had just heard something as monumental as what he’d just been told.

“You’re not going to say anything to him, are you?” Greg’s voice was barely audible, his tone cautious. 

As if reading Greg’s mind, John told him not to worry, that he wasn’t in trouble. “I needed to talk to him about me and Rosie living there anyway. What’s one more live-changing conversation?” He laughed nervously as he began to imagine how on earth he was going to talk to Sherlock about what he’d heard.

“You know I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t know how you felt, right?”

“No, no, it’s fine, I know you wouldn’t.” He glanced at his watch, “It’s getting late-“ he stood to leave, his stool scraping across the laminate floor in his haste, “I should go.” He grabbed his coat from the stool to his left and exited the bar, a small smile in Greg’s direction, as he headed home. It was always shocking how dark it was so early in the winter months, though, truth be told, John had no idea what time it was. He’d checked his watch but was too distracted to notice what time it was. He didn’t care though, he needed to go home.

**

If it hadn’t been for the pleasant surprise he had received upon returning the day before, and of course, hearing the news from Greg, John wouldn’t have been so apprehensive as he walked through the door into the living room. The room itself seemed no different to the previous day, the Christmas lights were lit on the tree, and so were the ones strung around the ceiling, the CD player was playing music as it so often did, this time a collection of children’s Christmas Carols. However, movement from the middle of the room caught his eye.

His heart surged when he understood what was going on. Paper, tape, mussed up hair. There were half-made paper chains strung across the furnisher in every colour he could imagine. Hundreds of tiny pieces of paper, no doubt from making snowflakes, littered the floor. He could even see some had migrated to underneath Sherlock’s chair. But the mess didn’t bother him, and it wasn’t the decorations or extra Christmas cheer that cause the stirring in his stomach. The sight of his best friend and the man he secretly loved, holding his daughter between his legs on the floor as she tried to make a chain herself, was almost too much for him to process.

Rosie was mumbling away, seemingly frustrated that she couldn’t get the tape to do what she wanted. Sherlock merely watched with fascination as she managed to make a chain that was five links longs before she got bored. Neither had noticed John’s presence until he cleared his throat. “What’s going on here then?” He asked playfully as he reached to shake his daughter’s outstretched hands. He knelt between Sherlock’s feet as he inspected the little girl’s handiwork. She really had made a mess of things, getting more tape on her clothing than on the paper links themselves. The doctor in him noticed that absence of tape on her delicate skin, no doubt due to Sherlock’s careful watch.

She held up her arms and giggled when John tickled under them. He cast his eyes upwards and was met with Sherlock’s piercing gaze. The man was smiling, he looked positively radiant, as if the day he’d spent, with a toddler no doubt, was the most enjoyable he’d ever had. He never could help but smile back automatically when he looked at Sherlock, this time being no exception. His eyes fell momentarily to Sherlock’s lips before he diverted them back to the man’s eyes. A flash of confusion passed across Sherlock’s face as his smile faltered.

John leant back abruptly and picked up Rosie, taking her to her high-chair as he went to make tea. He had to get his thoughts under control. His heart too. Both were racing like he’d never known them to before. Sure, he’d felt his heart flutter when Sherlock would smile at him, or when he’d caught a whiff of the detective’s cologne, but now he knew that Sherlock felt something back, whatever those feelings may be, he knew that he needed to consider every word that he was going to say, carefully. There was no room for misunderstandings or assumptions. He had one shot and wasn’t going to mess it up. 

**

Sherlock couldn’t fathom how a person could not recognise an obvious pattern. Blue, white, red, green and yellow. Blue, white, red, green and yellow. He’d used the same five colours, in the exact same order over a dozen times. He’d made five piles of the same colours, on the floor - in colour order from left to right, the only logical and intuitive way to organise them. Blue, white, red, green and yellow. 

Rosie had clapped her hands as she finished taping her fifth link, the third one of which was blue. Sherlock couldn’t comprehend how a chain, made of only five links no less, coloured blue, blue, red, white and blue, could be aesthetically pleasing to someone, age be damned. He sighed as he heard the kettle pop.

He had been worried that John would be upset at the mess that they had made. He was aware that he wasn’t the tidiest- he wasn’t a tidy person at all, and adding a toddler, in his care, meant a messy living room was inevitable. He hadn’t seen John since the previous morning and had no clue how the clean flat had gone down with John. He had briefly considered that, despite John’s constant protests about human body parts in the fridge, and his almost constant complaints about the mess of the coffee and dining tables, that John would simply be too tired to notice the difference. He wouldn’t blame him if he had. He knew John was busy, working almost full time whilst raising a child on his own has no doubt begun to take its toll.  
He was proud of himself for tidying, long overdue as it may be, but he contented himself with fact that John hadn’t noticed – not that the living room looked particularly tidy at the current moment. He hadn’t done it for the praise or the recognition, he’d done it to help John out and make the flat a safer place for Rosie to live in. 

Not getting up from the floor, he turned his body so his back was against his chair. He let his eyes wander to the man in the kitchen making tea. Two cups, he never needs to ask.

As he watched the man he so dearly loved, an unsettling feeling struck him in his core. If he ever knew how Sherlock felt, if he ever really knew, he would surely leave. He would be gone. He would take Rosie.

Rosie. Sherlock almost felt guilty for how much he loved the chubby bundle of giggles. She wasn’t his, and so he had no right to care for her as if she were. He knew that love for a child was an emotional reaction based upon more factors than just a biological connection to said child, the reason adoptive parents grow to love their child as if it were actually their own. But he was only Rosie’s godfather. The role, he knew, encouraged a form of paternal responsibility, a duty of sorts, and yes, love, but what he felt, he knew, went beyond what he was socially obliged for feel for the little girl.

It worried him that John would find out and accuse Sherlock of trying to be something that he wasn’t. To both of them. If John knew how he felt about either of them, he would leave.

But he would be leaving soon anyway, Sherlock figured. He would probably find someone new to marry, or at the very least move out when Rosie was too big for her cot and needed a bedroom of her own. Even Sherlock’s bedroom, the larger of the two, wouldn’t be suitable for either John or Rosie if it were divided in two. 

John. His John. Though not really. John with his loving heart and endless supply of woollen jumpers that Sherlock pretended to hate but secretly loved on him. He’d commandeered one a few days after John had moved back in. John, naturally, assumed he had misplaced it at some point during the move. Sherlock had neglected to correct him. It wasn’t a particular favourite of John’s, so Sherlock hadn’t felt too bad. It still smelt like John. Sherlock wore it some nights to sleep - the hem barely grazing his lower stomach - to keep him company in a way John never would.

He opened his eyes – he hadn’t even noticed that he’d closed them – to find John staring at him. His elbow was perpendicular to the arm of his chair, his head resting in the palm of his hand. His eyes were warm and Sherlock sensed a slight amusement in them. “You’re back then?” John teased. Sherlock understood within a few moments. He must have sunk away into his mind palace as he thought of John and Rosie. 

He turned his head towards the CD player to better hear what was on. John had changed the CD to one of Classical Christmas music. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken as he realised that they were alone. He glanced around the room before John, reading his mind, the brilliant man, assured him that Rosie was okay and that she was asleep in the spare cot in John’s room. 

“Why is she upstairs?” Sherlock hoped that the quiver in his voice went unnoticed. He was wrong, for John merely stared at him for a few beats before clearing his throat. Sherlock watched as his neck bobbed with the action.  
“Just thought it’d be easier to talk if she wasn’t here. Didn’t want to distract her.” He shuffled nervously, but Sherlock was too distracted to begin deducing why. His gut told him that he was in trouble – no - the faint crease between John’s brows was usually much deeper when that was the case. He gave up and nodded gently, willing John to go on.

He watched as John processed his thoughts, wondering what could be causing him such conflicting emotions. Ah, he could read him again. There was doubt, a faint embarrassment – interesting – and quite a lot of regret behind his eyes. Those beautiful, mesmerising blue eyes that he could happily stair into for the rest of his life. His jaw was clenched, which meant – no he’d lost it, too caught up in the eyes. He sighed and watched intently as John slid out of his chair and joined Sherlock on the floor, his right leg slotting between Sherlock’s. He wasn’t sure why, but he could tell that John was trying his best not to touch Sherlock.

This was it. John was going to tell him they were leaving. A comforting touch would only hurt Sherlock more, so John was sparing his feelings whilst also trying to soften the blow by altering the height difference for the conversation. It would appear too harsh were he towering over Sherlock - who hadn’t even thought about getting up. Down here was much better. Nicer, more respectful. 

John was talking again. “-I mean, not that I want to, I don’t, Sherlock, but I feel like it’s inevitable.”

Brows creased in confusion, Sherlock tore his eyes away from John’s lips – he hadn’t even noticed he had been looking at them – “Sorry? What’s inevitable?” He hoped that John didn’t think he was mocking him. Judging by John’s face, what he had said had been difficult. Sherlock felt like a complete arse for making him repeat it.

John smiled sympathetically. “Rosie and me. We can’t stay here forever, Sherlock. There isn’t enough room. We should, you know, talk about it.”

“You want- yes. I suppose that would be the most logical solution.” He was aware of how distant his voice sounded. It lacked its usual control and was at least an octave higher than normal. “But, wait-“ He shook his head as he thought back a few seconds, “You don’t want to?”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was unreadable.

“You said ‘Not that I want to’. You don’t want to leave?” He was confident that he had never asked a question with so much undisguised hope in his entire life.  
John’s face broke into the widest smile Sherlock had seen on him in a long time. Too long. “Of course I don’t want to move out.” His smile flickered as he glanced out of the window briefly. “I figured that you would eventually want your space back.”  
“I-“ Sherlock struggled to school himself. John didn’t want to leave.

John thought Sherlock would want them to leave? How could he think something so absurd?

“John, I just assumed that one day you’d move on. Find someone or get a bigger place.” Try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t force his voice to go much louder than a whisper. A hand landed on his outstretched leg, a little above his knee. He was sure John had noticed the hitch in his breath.

Sherlock watched the kaleidoscope of expressions on John’s face as they each took over. Realisation was first. Understanding Sherlock’s point came second. Compassion came third as his eyes softened even more. The warmth from the fire had tinged John’s left cheek a pale rose colour, Sherlock fought with all his might not to reach out and see just how warm it was. 

John sat back and let his leg graze Sherlock’s. He must have noticed, even though he didn’t remove it. Sherlock knew John was talking again but couldn’t focus his mind on anything but the warmth of John’s leg against his.  
“Sherlock?” John laughed kindly as Sherlock whipped his head up. “I said that room will be a problem soon though. I don’t want to leave so something has to be done about space.”

“I thought about that –“ Sherlock was back. “There’s always 221C. It’s one bedroom and has a living and kitchen area large enough for my experiments. I could sleep and work down there, this are could be what it already is, a living room and kitchen. You’d probably take my room, giving Rosie the extra privacy a young woman with obviously need as she gets older.” He smiled at John, happy he managed to get his idea across without getting all flustered. In his mind, ideally, they would share his room and Rosie could still have the upstairs bedroom. Since that wasn’t a viable option, 221C would have to do. It was nice and, some would use the word cosy, and would suit him just fine.

“Yea, that’d work.” John’s expression faltered, as if he had other things on his mind. Sherlock brushed his deductions aside and beamed internally at the knowledge that John didn’t want to, and probably wouldn’t leave. His heart soared at the thought of living with John indefinitely, no matter their relationship. “Tea?” Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly at the obvious question. He knew John would have made him one whether he answered or not.


	5. John's nightly routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see John running over the evening's conversation in his mind, wondering what it all meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about putting this short section at the beginning of tomorrow's chapter, but thought it worked better as a stand alone chapter.  
> Hopefully tomorrow's chapter will be finished in time, got a busy day planned if I'm being truthful.  
> Apologies in advance if I don't get it up until the evening.

Monday 21st December 2020. 221B Baker Street. Night-time.

________________________________________________________________________________________

John undressed hastily as he attempted to beat the cold. He had planned ahead and put his bedclothes on the radiator before he had gone to brush his teeth, but the process of undressing and getting from one set of clothes to the other was torture.

He folded his clothes neatly before placing them in his washing basket. Climbing into bed quietly to avoid waking Rosie - he had seen no point in waking her only to take her downstairs - he let his thoughts wander. 

Had Sherlock really thought that John would want to leave? Had John done or said something that would make him think that?

Personally, he thought the idea of Sherlock moving into 221C was absurd. He had a much simpler solution. He would let Rosie have the upstairs bedroom - Sherlock had been right to suggest that - but he would much rather be with Sherlock in Sherlock's room. He just couldn't see himself sleeping in that room, knowing Sherlock had been there before, and had, in his selflessness, given up the comfort and the normalcy that the room brought, for John. He found that he liked the idea of sleeping in a bed that smelt like Sherlock. The man smelt of home, and something else that awoke a desire in John that he never thought he'd have for a man. He'd been with men, in a way, but never cared for, nor wanted them the way he did Sherlock. With his raven curls, those cupid-bow lips, the thought of the toned, warm, alabaster skin barely covered by a sheet-

No, John, stop. He knew it was wrong to let his thoughts go there when he had his child in the room. There were just some things you can't excuse, and pleasuring one's self with a toddler in the room was undoubtedly one of them.

Rosie being in the room with him was disrupting an almost nightly routine going back months. He would regularly get worked up gradually throughout the day, sometimes he would even encourage the inappropriate thoughts when he found he couldn't ignore them. Sherlock simply being Sherlock would work him up to the point that he needed to relieve himself almost daily.

He wasn't used to sexual frustration. Before Mary, he would go out, find a woman who had no more intention of finding a relationship than he did, relieve his tension and then they would both move on, unattached and better off for it. Now it was different. He couldn't even begin to think about what it would be like to date someone. He knew he would never be able to be with Sherlock, but the thought of bringing someone else into their little bubble was unimaginable.

He would spend the rest of his life - hopefully - with the gorgeous detective, whatever that relationship may entail, watching his amazing daughter growing up. He drifted off to sleep, convincing himself that he would be content with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving your comments, please feel free to let me know what you think so far and what you hope will happen!


	6. Christmas Party and Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The NSY Christmas Party proves to be just what the boys need to get them out of their shells. But what will happen when they both let loose and go for it? Cute Parent!Lock in the beginning!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that this is so late, it's just been one of those days. I shouldn't be too busy at work tomorrow and can do tomorrow's Chapter then haha.  
> Hope you enjoy this. There's plenty more where this came from, trust me ;)

Tuesday 22nd December 2020. Baker Street. NSY Christmas Party. Night-time.

________________________________________________________________________________________

“Yes, big splash – biiig splash!” Sherlock all but threw the whale into the tub, eliciting the loudest giggle from Rosie.  
“Bi pla!” Rosie threw the turtle in after the whale.

“Now, let’s see how big a splash you, my Dear Watson, can make. Ready?” He lowered her slowly into the tub. “Are you ready?” He encouraged, his voice had surely never been higher?

“Yea! Serlo! Now!”

With that, he dipped her feet below the surface and chuckled deeply as she began thrashing the moment her feet touched the water. Submerged up to her waist, he hands joined in with the fun, soaking Sherlock to an apparently funny state. She pointed an laughed as he shook his head, catching her with the droplets that flew from the sodden curls that usually fell in front of his face. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He mumbled as he grabbed the plastic cup from by the taps. Filling it with water, he began to slowly wet her hair ready for the shampoo. John had shown him weeks ago how to do it. It was mostly common sense, but ensuring she didn’t crawl away had proved to be a challenge with Little Miss Squirmy Watson.

He caught her ask she began leaning forward to retrieve the toys, tickling her gently as he sat her back down. “Squirmy.” He mocked.

“Irmy!” She raised her hands above her head in acknowledgement. Apparently he’d called her it a lot during bath time. Enough for her to recognise it at least. He felt his mouth contort once again into a broad smile. It was hard to stop it when he was with Rosie. He had gotten used to hiding the depths of his happiness for John, but for Rosie, he needn’t hide it, not feel ashamed of it.

“Poo!”

“What?” It was lucky that toddlers didn’t recognise desperation.

“Poo!” She repeated, pointing commandingly at her head.

“Poo..” He mumbled in acknowledgement, relieved.

“Now, Rosie, do we want apple hair or strawberry hair?” He held two bottles out in front of her and watched, tickled, as she looked to be seriously pondering the question.

“A-OL” She pointed to the green bottle and clapped her hands enthusiastically.

“Apple it is. Now Rosie, I need to tell you something, and you’ve got to keep a secret for me. Okay?”

“Ay.” He knew that she had no idea what he was talking about, but felt comforted by her reply.

“Your father and me, whilst we both live together, we aren’t together. As you get older, and if by some miracle I don’t screw this up, and you’re still living here, I want you to understand that just because you aren’t mine, doesn’t mean that I don’t love you as if you were, right?”

“Ea!” Her hands were in the air again with enthusiasm as she was kept a part of the conversation.

“I know your daddy is made differently to me, and that means that one day, you might even have a new mummy. But even then, I will love you no less.” He felt a prick behind his eyes, water gathering in the inside corners. “You are a part of him, so how could I not love you?” He trailed off at the end, shocked at his open-ness, even as he spoke to someone who didn’t understand what he was saying.

Apparently noticing the tears in his eyes, Rosie stopped her mindless babbling and looked at him, her wide eyes – as beautiful and blue as John’s – watching him intently.

"All done?" He asked with more calm than he had thought possible.

"Ya!" Rosie brought her splayed hands down fast onto the water's surface, soaking Sherlock's shirt even more. She giggled as she pointed to Sherlock's hair. "Bu bu!" She laughed.

Sherlock half stood and saw that he did indeed have a head full of bubbles. He ruffled his hair and slicked it back with the damp before scooping up a still giddy Rosie. He held her close after wrapping her in her over-sized towel. "I can tell you I love you. I can't tell him though, can I?" He half spoke to himself as he gently rubbed her hair with the soft material.

The door gradually opened as John crept in, checking no one was behind the door as he opened it. He had an embarrassed look on his face and Sherlock briefly considered that he had heard what Sherlock had said to Rosie, but under further investigation, Sherlock deduced quickly, that John needed the bathroom. "We'd better be off, little bee, I think Daddy needs to use the bathroom." He sent a smirk John's way as he took Rosie to John's room to dress her.

**

New Scotland Yard had opted to have their Christmas party on the Tuesday, Christmas Day being the Friday, down to availability for the venue - someone *cough* Greg, had forgotten to book it - and the scedules for the guests, of course, the majority of which had other plans later in the week.

Sherlock, though he wouldn't tell anyone, and would deny it if they said something, was looking forward to the party. The sole reason being that he gets to see John in a suit. John insists he wears one, and Sherlock does anything but argue. Donned in his dark blue silk shirt and signature black trousers and blazer, Sherlock came out of his room feeling pretty giddy.

He watched John enter through the kitchen door, pulling at his clothes absentmindedly as he approached the mirror above the fire to check what he obviously thought was a wonky tie. Sherlock was speechless, and insanely aware that he was staring, mouth slightly open, hands straight by his sides. John caught his eye, mouth falling open in surprise, in the mirror. He appeared to swallow forcibly before he smiled at Sherlock self-consciously. "Is there something wrong?" He asked sincerely, clearly worried about how he looked in a suit.

"Erm-" Sherlock tried twice to speak but failed, clearing his throat as discretely as he could, he approached John. "No, you look fine. The suit fits perfectly." He left out how good John's arse looked in the fitted trousers. 

"You sure?" Apparently unconvinced, John made to remove his tie but stopped when Sherlock made to speak again. "You think I should leave it on?" Sherlock missed the suggestive tone in John's voice as he wordlessly nodded, missing the sensation of his ordinarily loose curls against his forehead, given that they were instead slicked back.

Without another word, he turned, grabbed his coat and started down the stairs, hearing John a few steps behind. He tried to tell himself that John didn't look absolutely delicious in that suit, really he didn't. That his quiffed hair wasn't charming, and that his smile hadn't once again reduced Sherlock to wordless gestures. He certainly hadn't noticed that John had, as usual, masturbated in the shower that afternoon, because the thoughts that usually accompanied that deduction regularly encouraged Sherlock to do the same, and he couldn't. They were going out. He was all worked up, and having to leave. It was going to be a long night.  
No, he hadn't noticed these things, because, if he had, and if they were all true - which they obviously were - then Sherlock was in deep trouble.

**

John watched from the bar as Sherlock skillfully avoided conversing with anyone other than Molly through carefully timed 'texts' on his phone.  
Greg nudged him in the side, eyes questioning as John turned to face him. 

"Sorry?" John reckoned he was getting as bad as Sherlock when it came to zoning out when others were talking to him. Not that being distracted could be called zoning out, there was still a difference between them there.

"I said, how did it go yesterday?" A smile crept across Greg's face, one eyebrow raised in tease.

"It didn't. Well, we talked about what would happen when Rosie got older, about the living arrangements and that." He let his gaze fall back on the detective, who, in the few seconds John had glanced away, had removed his blazer and was rolling the sleeves of his shirt up, pushing them up to his elbows. John felt his breath catch in his throat as Sherlock glanced to his left and gave John a full view of that gorgeous neck. He knew Greg was watching him as he stared, but he wasn't ashamed. God, what he wanted to do to that neck. 

He had returned home from work that afternoon to the sounds of splashing coming from the bathroom by Sherlock's room. He had approached unnoticed. He hadn't heard what Sherlock had been saying to Rosie, but the deep rumble of his voice, his tone almost mournful, had told John that something was getting to him. He had sounded so sad.

He had leant on the door, causing it to creak. Feigning ignorance, he had entered the room only to be greeted by the sight of Rosie in a drenched Sherlock's arms, something he'd only ever dreamed about. Of course, in his dreams, Sherlock's clothes were usually wet because John had dragged him into the shower to join him.  
If the sight of the breathtaking man before him, with his endearing slicked-back hair - which, to John's annoyance, he had followed through with for the evening - clothes see-through and clinging to his toned frame, wasn't enough, Sherlock's little comment before he left the room had sent him over the edge.

"I think Daddy needs to use the bathroom." He had said. John had barely kept a groan from escaping his mouth. Something so innocent, 'daddy', shouldn't have worked him up the way that it had. But as soon as he heard that word come out of Sherlock's plump lips, he found he could easily imagine him saying it in a whole other context.

John had climbed straight into the shower and relieved himself then and there, imagining Sherlock's hand in the place of his. His touch had been teasing, with gentle strokes, taking his time as he could only imagine Sherlock would. Carefully monitoring every variable, making note of every hitch of breath, every tremor. He had briefly wondered if Sherlock would be completely different in bed, his brain shutting off, getting lost in the moment. Thoughts of lust induced desperation had awoken an urgency in him, causing him to speed up his movement, his grip tighter as he had worked himself to release. 

As he stood next to Greg, a full four hours later, he could still feel where his teeth had clamped down on his bottom lip to prevent himself from moaning Sherlock's name aloud.

"What about the living arrangements then?" Greg spurred, hopefully unaware of the indecent thoughts running around John's head.

"Oh, yea. Sherlock thought about moving his work into 221C. Sleeping there. Living in 221B as we do now though." John couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock, who was now matching John's fierce stare from all the way across the room.

Unsure what had taken over him, and knowing full-well that what he about to do was a bad idea, John gulped the remainder of his drink and began towards Sherlock.

**

Sherlock had been aimlessly glancing around the room, deducing who was sleeping with who, whilst they were married to who. Who hated their kids and who desperately wanted to go home and eat Ice Cream and watch Emmerdale.

He had noticed John looking his way a couple of times, but thinking nothing of it, he had occupied himself with Googling the effect of hydrochloric acid on different foods.

He had risked another glance at John, only to find the man practically burning a hole through him with his eyes. He couldn't help but stare back, as if breaking eye contacts for any longer than it takes him to blink, would result in a catastrophic disaster.

What he would have passed off as sentiment a few years previously, Sherlock recognised to be lust. John was drunk, he was sure. But despite his now firm moral compass, Sherlock knew it was wrong to take advantage of a person who was significantly inebriated, he couldn't bear to break the connection he had with John at that moment. He prayed his senses would kick in before it was too late.

It was too late, John had swigged the last of his drink was striding purposely over to the very table where Sherlock was standing.

"Do you think we would be mocked too much if we had one dance?" John had asked flatly, no sense of uncertainty in his voice.

"It would make no sense for us not to." Sherlock had rounded the table before his brain had even managed to catch up with what his heart and his body was doing.  
He felt John's hand delicately on his shoulder, the fingers on the other hand weaving their way between Sherlock's. His body burned everywhere his skin was in direct contact with John. He saw his hand was on John's back - when had he put that there - gently tugging him closer. He watched in amazement as John smiled and took a step towards him, his face barely ten inches from Sherlock's.

John was so close that Sherlock could smell Rosie's apple shampoo in his hair. He had showered in the downstairs bathroom after all. Not only that, but John smelt like Coka Cola and lime - he wasn't drunk, he wasn't even 'drinking' - Sherlock realised with confusion.

What was happening? He had been talking to Graham - Graham obviously knew about Sherlock's feelings, Molly did and she had undoubtedly told him - was this a test? Was Sherlock part of some bet? He worried that the arseholes at the Yard were watching him as he fulfilled one of his deepest fantasies.

He stole his eyes away from John, realising people were indeed looking at them. He saw someone - he had never cared enough to learn her name - point at Sherlock, no, not at him, a little above him. He glanced up, and to his horror, saw a sprig of mistletoe. It taunted him with its innocent colouring, mocking his dirty thoughts. He pulled away from John, not meeting his eye, and turned to leave. He was embarrassed and thoroughly ashamed, and he needed to leave. Now.

**

John had been having the time of his life. He was sure that people were staring, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Sherlock never minded, so he figured he didn't either. He wasn't ashamed of his feelings, and so had stopped correcting people ages ago when they assumed he and Sherlock were a thing.

He had hoped that his change in attitude would wordlessly show the detective that he did care, did feel for him in the way other people insinuated. Nothing had come of it, of course. He hadn't know if Sherlock was unable to recognise the sentiment, or if he chose to ignore it. When Greg had told him how Sherlock supposedly felt, he knew that he had to try properly. Maybe that was why he had waltzed over to the man and bluntly asked him to dance.

It felt right, being in Sherlock's warm grasp, as chaste as it was. He wondered if he would ever be able to truly show Sherlock how much -

Sherlock had backed away, there had been mere seconds between John feeling so warm and at home and watching the retreating form of the taller man as he almost seemed to run out of the room.

That was twenty minutes ago. John hadn't managed to get out of the pub in time to catch up with Sherlock. He made it outside in time to see a taxi turning the corner of the otherwise empty street. 

As the taxi drove down Baker Street, John found he was struggling to control his fidgeting. He knew he shouldn't have done it. He'd ruined something that was perfect. He was out of the car before it had come to a stop, throwing who knows how much money at the thankful driver.

Seeing no point in drawing out the inevitable, he strolled up the stairs, two at a time, with purpose. He would apologise and see what happens from there.  
Sherlock was pacing the living room frantically, burning a hole into the freshly hoovered carpet. "Sherlock-"

"Why did you do that? What did Lestrade say to you?" John could hear the fear in his voice, further supporting the thought that Sherlock did care for him.  
"What? Nothing, Sherlock. What's upset you so much?" He approached the distressed man cautiously.

Sherlock's previously neat hair was now in disarray as he repeatedly carded his fingers through it recklessly. "Why did you ask me to dance? Was it to goad those idiots at the Yard?"

John's heart ached at the thought that Sherlock thought he was using him for a joke. "No! Sherlock, I asked you to dance, because, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to dance with you." He was no more than a foot in front of the detective who seemed to regain some composure after John confessed his desire.  
John watched as his brilliant mind tried to string together the facts. His mouth fell open a few times before he finally asked, in a voice so quiet it didn't seem to belong to the great man, why. He asked John why he had wanted to dance with him.

John took his hands as they finally released the now wild raven curls atop his head, pulling him a little closer. Wanting his eyes to do the talking, John looked intently at Sherlock, attempting to convey his emotions without voicing them.

He was caught completely, though pleasantly, off guard when Sherlock's lips were suddenly against his, his tongue desperately trying to gain entrance to John's mouth. He opened his mouth eagerly with a moan he couldn't fight back. Sherlock's hands were cupping his face, their bodies flush from torso to knee. John slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist and impossibly tried to pull him even closer. Their tongues wrapped themselves around each other deliciously and John needed more. He pulled Sherlock around and pushed him down onto the couch, promptly climbing into his lap, grinding his body against a pliant Sherlock without shame.  
He shuddered when Sherlock moaned his name filthily, his hands clawing at John's arse, trying to pull him closer still.

It wasn't until he felt Sherlock's interest against the underside of his arse, that he noticed how painfully hard he was himself. It took him a moment to realise his phone was ringing. He ignored it the first time, choosing instead to pull at Sherlock's curls - Christ how long he had wanted to do that - eagerly drinking in the desperate moan it elicited from Sherlock. 

A warm hand found the back of his neck and tipped his head to the right even further, somehow deepening the kiss even more. He broke his lips free reluctantly when his phone began to ring again, only to find himself thoroughly distracted still by the wet mouth against his neck. Sherlock nipped at his jaw and sucked a faint bruise onto his pulse point. John groaned aloud at the thought of being marked by Sherlock. Everyone would know that he was Sherlock's, and he loved it.

His phone rang a third time, stopping Sherlock in his ministrations. He looked up at John, eyes unsure.

John slipped his phone free from his front pocket, which proved to be quite a feat with his raging erection. "It's Harry."

"Oh, right." Sherlock sounded positively wrecked, but before John could even take in the dishevelled detective, his phone rang a fourth time.

He slipped off Sherlock and stood awkwardly, his back to Sherlock - he couldn't very well talk to his sister whilst pointing at the detective with his anatomy. "Hi, you okay?" He tried to control his voice, pleading internally that she didn't ask why he sounded so breathless.

When the conversation ended a little over a minute later, John found Sherlock in the kitchen making tea, his hair back the way it had been before their tussle, his facade back up. "That was Harry." He started, stupidly. Sherlock didn't turn around. "She's had an argument with Louise and wants me to come over. Do you mind?" He wasn't sure what he was asking, or why, but it felt like the right thing to do. 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively the way he always did, but as he turned, John saw the corner of his mouth upturned. "Will you be coming home tonight?" The last time Sherlock had asked him this, was when he had last gone out on a date.

"Yes, I should think so. I'll, er, be off then. We'll talk tomorrow, yea?"

He was half out the door when he saw Sherlock smile brightly and nod. 

John could hardly contain himself, his thoughts were running wild. He had kissed Sherlock. Sherlock had kissed him back. Not only that, Sherlock had wanted him, just like he had wanted Sherlock. He sighed as he climbed into a taxi one street over, wondering how he was supposed to be of help to Harry when all he could think about was Sherlock. His lips sliding against John's, his very hard member pressing insistently into John's arse. He bit back a moan at the thought of what Sherlock would feel like inside him, no bloody linen and silk barriers in the way.

** 

He had kissed John. John had kissed him back. He didn't know why he had done it, he certainly didn't know he was going to do it until he had already grasped John's face with both hands.

But John had kissed him back. He had wanted him, he had pushed him onto the sofa - Sherlock had never found something so arousing - and straddled him. He could still feel John grinding against him, and if he concentrated hard enough, he was sure he could recreate that feeling in the privacy of his room. He desperately wanted to. He felt he needed to.

He was half-way to his room when a friendly "Yoo-hoo!" came from the bottom of the stairs. No doubt Mrs Hudson had heard them return. The woman obviously wanted to go to bed, and therefore needed Sherlock to go and get Rosie. He sighed as he descended the stairs, grateful that Mrs Hudson wasn't the one who could read peoples every thought, she would surely blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments, I would really appreciate the feedback.


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